by Lisa Jade
He looks me up and down, and then gives a satisfied nod.
“Well, I can actually see your face now, so that's a start. I bet it felt good to get cleaned up.”
I nod. It did, but my skin still feels raw, like I've peeled away the toughest layer of myself.
“Doc gave you a once over?”
Another nod.
“And you feel alright?”
And another. Please leave me alone.
He steps aside now, and his hands find his pockets again.
“Good. I'll pass the message along.”
I give a small smile and start to walk past him, but suddenly his hand is on me, holding me in place.
“Listen,” he says, and his voice is suddenly hushed, “maybe it's not my place to say – no, it's definitely not my place to say, but I will anyway. What happened with you and Adam wasn't a one-sided attack. He was rightfully angry because you did something stupid and reckless and wrong. He's beating himself up over it, thinking he was too harsh, but he won't apologise because at the end of the day, Ash, you were to blame for it.”
I simply stare at the ground. I know. You don't need to remind me.
“We're just relaxing at the base right now,” he continues, “come up at some point. I think you need to apologise to him. Any way you can.”
I avoid his eyes, frustration and guilt swirling in me. He's right. I should apologise and I shouldn't hold it against him. While I don't feel what I did was wrong, my actions were to blame for the whole argument. But the thought of facing Adam again, seeing the anger in his eyes, is more than I can stand.
“Think about it, okay?”
With that he's gone, jogging down the path back to their base. I feel something stir inside me as he vanishes from my sight, an ancient yearning, a longing to be a part of that world.
It's about midday before I finally locate Bree. She's with John, one of the councilmen, helping him carry files and stacks of papers. When she sees me, she raises one arm and beams.
“Ash!”
Her voice is high and melodic, and there's something in it that feels like home. I step closer, and for a moment I wonder if I'm on a different floor than her. A quick glance tells me otherwise, but something seems amiss. She seems taller. Maybe half an inch or so, nothing major, but enough that I feel I've been away far longer than I have.
I gently pat her head and gesture to her height.
“It's great, isn't it? I hit a growth spurt, just like you always said!”
I smile; Bree used to come to me a lot, concerned that she was so much smaller and seemed so much younger than the other kids her age. How many times had I sat with her, showing her the sections of my books, pulling her close and silently reassuring her that one day she'd start to grow up? It makes me feel warm, proud.
“And you know what else?” she says, her face bright, “I've finally got myself a role!”
I stare. Most people select a role here when they're about Bree's age, but she always seemed so unsure. She would sit by me and marvel at the work in the infirmary, but cringe away whenever she saw blood. She would chase after the Scouts to get a moment of their time but never seemed to consider becoming one of them. I assumed she would become a guard, spending her time at the towers, staring into the city.
But then she turns and picks up a book. She hands it to me, her face expectant, and I blow the dust off the cover. Morality in Government, Volume III.
“I'm John's assistant,” she smiles, “I'm learning about democracy and leadership.”
John walks by, reaching out and ruffling her hair with one hand.
“And she's been doing an excellent job of it, too. If she plays her cards right, I see no reason Bree can't join the council someday.”
I smile. That's so great. For as long as I can remember Bree has been forgotten, unimportant, dismissed. I was the only one who ever gave her the time of day. I knew that she had something about her. The way she looks at the world has always seemed so simple. Black and white, right and wrong. She's always tried her best to understand others, even going so far as to try and learn sign language just to speak with me. The thought that one day she'll be able to have a voice that matters is wonderful.
But as I slink away, leaving the two to their work, I feel a pang of something else. It's immediately followed by guilt and a feeling that I'm being selfish, but I can't ignore it. For a long time I was her only lifeline – her only friend. I had thought that without me, she would struggle. But when I was gone, vanished from her life, she didn't miss me. She didn't struggle. In fact, she thrived. I wonder if part of that was down to my leaving. Perhaps she thought I would never come back, and figured there was no point in grieving. But the thought is selfish and ugly, and I remind myself that all I've ever wanted for Bree is for her to be happy. And she is.
I pull the door to their cabin shut behind me, and a small feeling of loss trembles through me. Maybe she was better off when I wasn't around at all.
I lurk for another few hours, my stomach uneasy, my mouth dry, before I finally give up. I've got nothing to do, nobody to speak to. If I return to the infirmary I'll face only awkward silences and unasked questions. I can't help out anywhere without being turned away or told I'm in the way of others. It occurs to me that I never felt this way back at Street. There was always something to do. Guarding or fighting or helping or building – an endless list of work that needed to be done, and no limits on how much you could do. I lean against a wall and let out a long, shuddering sigh, misery settling in my gut.
Minni would never have let me mope like this. If I tried, if I so much as teared up, she was on me, passing me her journal to read and detailing every part of it for me. Every word had an annotation, and she could tell me a story based on every page. Her thirst for the truth and her desire to track their history was awe-inspiring and nearly infectious.
I sneak back into the infirmary and to the room I'm staying in. I still hesitate to call it my room; it feels too quiet, too alien. I've never slept alone before. The lack of breathing is unnerving to me.
Bending down, I pull it out from under the bed. Minni's journal. My hand traces the front of it, gently stroking the worn and weathered leather of the cover. It feels so strange to have it here, in the tidy space of Fairground. It's a tiny piece of Street, a remnant, a fragment of something I once felt so bonded to.
I lean back and pull my knees to my chest, propping the book up on them. I must have read the whole thing from cover to cover by now, read her plan, their history. I intend to read it all again, in time – but right now, I have only one goal in mind.
I flip open to the later pages of their history, and take a moment to enjoy the familiarity of Minni's handwriting. The slant, the thickness. It screams her name. I start at the top of the page.
With Damien gone, there was nobody to lead us. For a few weeks we drifted, and it seemed like this was the end. But somewhere along the line someone mentioned Maximilian. Maximilian being Damien's brother and Matthew's youngest son. The assumption was that he, too, would be a great leader. He was voted in almost unanimously and stepped up to the challenge. Maximilian is a different leader than his brother of father. He shows more integrity but less grit. Still, I can see this is a new and brighter future for our tiny settlement.
I clutch the book to my chest, my heart swelling with sadness. I miss them. I miss Max and Minni and Thomas – I even miss Marcus and his lazy, infuriating ways. My face feels warm, and I sniff back the tears.
I hadn't thought it would be this hard. I can close my eyes and still picture his face. Gruff and unkempt and ruggedly handsome. Soft blue eyes and golden curls. If I focus, I can imagine he's in the room with me, sitting across from me, his face in that lopsided grin that always made my throat hurt. I feel like if I reach out, I could maybe even touch him.
But when I open my eyes, he's gone, and I'm sitting alone, crying in an empty room. My resolve builds and I lower the book. It shouldn't be this way. It shouldn't be so lonel
y.
You brought this on yourself, says a voice in my head. By hurting Adam, by being reckless. And you know there's only one way to fix it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I reach the Scout's base just as the sky begins to darken. Their lights are on already, and inside I can hear muffled conversation. It's not as wild as it was before – it's calmer, more subdued. A ray of golden light shines through the crack in the door and I stand in it, watching, waiting.
I used to be afraid of this door. The idea of knocking it, of being faced with the Scouts I admired so much, was terrifying to me. I remember coming here to bring that note, what seems like a lifetime ago, and how I drank in the sights, sounds and smells of the place. Back then it was my dream to become like them, admired and adored and loved for being strong. Now, with emotion welling in my chest, I don't want any of that. I just want my friends back.
I step up and rap on the door. The sound echoes across the courtyard, and suddenly I feel a sense of dread in my gut. A small part of me almost wishes they didn’t hear.
But they did. The conversation inside stops, and after a few moments I can hear steps on the other side. The door creaks open and Kicker leans out, his expression fuzzy. He’s wearing a baggy t-shirt and not a great deal else, and I wonder if he might be drunk – but then I remember where I am. People don’t get drunk at Fairground.
“You came after all,” he says, smiling his toothy smile. I return it, somewhat comforted by how laid back he seems to be. He pushes the door open behind him, holding it with one arm.
“Come on in.”
I hesitate but obey, ducking under his arm and into the room. It’s exactly how I remember it, right down to the scent in the air. The light, so unlike everywhere else at Fairground, is golden, warm and reminiscent of more peaceful times. Sparrow stands in the corner, fiddling with what looks to be a broken pulse mine. When she sees me she smiles, and gestures towards the chairs on the other side of the room. I look over and notice that Adam and Brick are there. They sit in near silence, every so often exchanging a little idle chatter.
“Who was it?” Adam calls, but he doesn’t bother turning around. Kicker meets my eyes and gestures for me to move forward; I can feel a hard lump in my throat as I approach.
Everyone always acts as though apologies are so easy. You can just mutter the words and be forgiven, and it’s in the past. What people don’t tell you is that apologising means admitting fault. It means confessing to being imperfect, and flawed, and putting your pride aside. But that last bit – that’s not easy at all. That’s the most difficult thing I can think of.
I circle round the chairs and stand in front of him. He stares at me, and for a moment he seems confused, but then his eyes darken. In them I can see the remnants of anger, and I can see how tightly he’s holding onto that, clinging to the belief that I was wrong and he was right. I feel the sadness twist in my side. Adam is a good person. He’s always been the type to hold himself responsible for others, even when perhaps he shouldn’t. If something had happened to me in the city, he wouldn’t be angry. If I wasn’t around to blame, he’d turn it inward. He’d blame himself. Just like he did when he thought that Nicholas had died. Just like he did when Brick got hurt.
How could I have done this to him?
I lean down, and my knees find the floor. I sit in front of him, my hands clasped together, lowered into my lap, and incline my head deeply.
Another thing about apologies. When you can’t talk, they’re a lot more difficult.
He stares at me for a minute, confusion filling his face, and then he speaks.
“What are you doing?”
Sparrow pipes up from the corner of the room, her lilting voice ringing in my ears.
“I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be an apology, Boss.”
“It is?”
I bow my head a little more, hoping that I can fix this. Somehow, I’ve got to fix this.
A hand finds my shoulder and I look up, meeting his eyes. They’re not angry anymore. The anger has dissipated, dissolved by other, more important feelings. He looks hurt, and sad, and a little pleased. When he speaks, his voice is soft, strained.
“Stop that, already. Just get up.”
I refuse, only standing when he grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. Once I’m upright I stand motionless, my head still bowed. He may have softened for a moment, but I don’t expect for a moment that I’ll get away without some form of reprimand. I’ve done it. I’ve become the first of us to break, to admit fault and beg forgiveness for my actions. I feel terrible, wounded. My pride is injured and I don’t know how I’m going to get it back.
But then he pats my shoulder, and a smile crosses his face.
“You sure know how to make a scene, don’t you?”
I smile back, but suddenly I can feel tears in my eyes.
“It’s alright,” he coos, “you’re forgiven. Of course you are.”
An arm loops around my arm – Brick, casually grabbing me. He tosses me towards one of the chairs, and I sit obediently, still a little unsure. It’s easy to say I’m forgiven. Forgiveness is a lot like apologies in that way. The words are easy; the act is hard.
“Want a drink?” smirks Sparrow, and without waiting for a reply she throws me something. I catch it with both hands and blink, a little stunned at both my own reflexes and that I was offered one at all. The others settle into chairs as well, each of them cracking open a drink of their own, and I realise that they’re letting it go. Hope fills my heart – maybe they really can forgive me.
“Have you been to see Bree since you got back?” Sparrow asks me. I nod, and perhaps my apprehension shows on my face, because she mirrors it back at me.
“Yeah, I know what you mean. With all the best intentions in the world, and as good as that girl is, I’m worried for her. John is…”
She trails off and bites her lip nervously, unsure how to continue.
“He’s a good guy,” Adam interjects, “he knows the inner workings of Fairground better than anyone and has the confidence to back it up. The problem is he’s just not a people person.”
I tilt my head. I had no idea of that; all my interactions with him have been at Council meetings, and he’s always seemed perfectly polite and reasonable. But I suppose there’s no way of knowing someone you’ve never seen outside of that.
Kicker sees my face and laughs.
“Hey now, don’t look so worried. He’s not going to hurt the kid. He just might not teach her the best things. John’s always been a little more preoccupied with the technicalities of running this place, rather than the personal side. But that girl always seemed sweet. She’ll probably be fine. In fact, she might teach him a thing or two!”
The others murmur their assent and I lean back, but their words continue to trouble me. I don’t doubt Bree – she’s a good person. She’s generous and friendly and tries so hard for people. But if what they say is true, she might not be learning from the best role model.
I sit with the Scouts for the rest of the evening, and they talk quietly amongst themselves. The result is a calm and quiet time, so unusual compared to what I’m used to. It’s nice. Warm and familiar and relaxing. A part of me feels happier now, more accepted.
I accidentally let slip a yawn, and Kicker is on his feet.
“Mouse is right. It’s getting late. I’m going to bed.”
The others nod too, and then Adam looks over at me.
“Are you staying at the infirmary?”
I nod.
“Do you want me to walk you back?”
I shake my head hard, and he seems relieved. Clearly, he didn’t want me to take me anyway. I give the others a small wave, and slip out.
It’s pitch black outside, and the walk back to the infirmary is brisk. As I walk I can’t help but feel a little conflicted. I still miss them, my friends from Street, but I’m not alone. I have friends here, too.
It’s been three days. Somehow, despite the difficulties I was
sure I would have, I’ve settled back in remarkably well. The Scouts seem okay with me now, though I still sometimes hear an edge in Adam’s voice. I can tell he’s trying hard to forgive me, to let go of what I did, but it’s hard. Of course it is. If things were switched, I don’t know if I could be even half as patient as he is. I think I’d be more likely to ignore him, cut him out of my life so he couldn’t hurt me again.
Eventually, I’m allowed back on watch. I find it odd now, sitting on that tower, staring out into the city and knowing what it’s like out there. I used to want, more than anything, to venture through it. Now I have, I thought the hunger would go away. Like a craving of sorts – you think it will fade if you get your hands on it, but once you have it you never want to let it go.
I start to spend more and more time up there. The Scouts offer me their company from time to time, and occasionally Dr Newton will ask me to do some minor task, but most of my time is spent there now. Watching. Waiting. Wishing.
I bring Minni’s journal with me most nights, reading by the light of a small solar lamp. I drink in all of her words, absorbing everything about it. Her neat writing, the way the ink changes as she works her way through any number of pens. I take comfort in it. It makes me miss them a little less.
It’s a particularly cold night when I reach the end of their history. The top of the page is labelled ‘Newcomer’, and with a small, silent laugh I realise she never let me read this page. She always skipped over it. I flatten the book out, shuffle closer to the light and read.
A newcomer came to Street. It was a younger female, who claimed to be from the theme park settlement on the other side of the city. Or rather, the voices on her walkie talkie did. The girl herself couldn’t speak, apparently. She’s only been here for a day, and I can honestly say I’ve never hated someone quite so much.